Lightning split the sky, which is normal for Georgia, but not in March. It had been unseasonably warm for two weeks and customers had been coming to Hal’s in droves for the commercial grade air conditioning and sweating cold drinks. Hiram, the house pianist, had been banging the ivory since 1986 as the soundtrack for the well heeled souses that made up the regular clientele and he was long past his prime and caring.

He warmed the crowd up with the usual Billy Joel and some recent pop covers to whet their appetite, saving the American Pie and Sweet Caroline sing a longs for closing time when nostalgia would bring the tips flowing like the overloaded gutters outside. It was business as usual until the door opened and with a gust of wind and a flash of lightning, in walked a heavily made up Asian woman in a trench coat with her hair in a tight bun.

She took a few step in and Hiram could see she was limping badly and favoring her right leg as she left small puddles in her wake. She ignored the hostess and went straight to the bar. Hiram continued to play, entertaining the thought of playing David Bowie’s “China Girl” for a moment before he dismissed it as mildly racist since he really wasn’t sure where her roots lay.

As he took his second break, he could hear her asking the bartender in broken English for a Mr. Hemlock. Clenched tight in her dripping hand was a rusted key; the kind you might find in a medieval castle door. She seemed to be desperate to find this man and over the next few minutes Hiram pieced together the idea that she was both afraid and desperate to find this man.

He walked to the empty space beside her and asked if he could help. With smeared makeup and an expression half way between fear and hope she looked up at him. Standing next to her he realized she was only four feet tall and dressed in a rhinestone costume from neck to knees, only partially covered by the trenchcoat.

She explained in her strained speech that she was an aerialist, a trapeze artist with the local carnival and that Hemlock had taken her from her home country to the US with promises of lucrative shows and a new life.

Instead she had been dragged across the American Southeast to small town after small town with no pay and meager meals. He seized their passports and kept them in a pouch beneath his ringmaster’s coat and close to his hairy belly that peaked out between buttons sewn for a man 30 years younger.

She had finally broken down when Hemlock insisted she develop a new act involving jumping from back of a trotting donkey. That night at the performance, she had landed awkwardly in a crumpled heap in practice to the gasps of the crowd. She had limped off with the help of the juggler and the derision of the ringmaster burning in her ears.

She returned to her trailer and resolved to make her getaway. Knowing that the gate receipts were stored in an unbreakable box in the ringmaster’s trailer, she used the noise of the crowd to cover her approach from the high grass next to the trailer. She lithely crawled up the side of the trailer and onto the roof and then contorted her small frame until she fit through the vent window in the ceiling. There on the desk was the key to the strongbox and she grabbed it and scribbled a note with her name, a drawing of a piano, a drawing of the key and the word Korean word “free” and then limped away into the rainy night. She knew Hemlock frequented the bar when in Atlanta and it was a simple trade.

Hiram drew a deep breath and let it out slowly as his sipped a beer. “It really is a hell of a story Miss. Is that the key?” She nodded her head and handed it to him, with relief at the story having been told.

“I have been waiting all my life for a real damsel in distress, but I hate to tell you; the reason he comes here when he’s in town is my name is Hiram Hemlock. He’s my brother and I’m sorry but this just isn’t your night.”

As the Immigration and Customs officers took her away into the clearing night, he returned to the piano and began to play “China Girl” at half tempo.